I killed someone today.
I can't remember exactly how it all happened, all I can think about is how frighteningly simple of an action it was. All I had to do was let go. There were a few tall men that were harassing an old woman when we were on our way to some other nameless shop. I wanted to mind my own business, but the rest of the group charged them without a second thought. I don't blame them, really, I don't. Everyone wants to be a hero...everyone but me.
Shortly before my mom went away, all of us went on a grocery trip to the market. The trip itself wasn't anything special, but what happened on the way back was. It was nearly dark by the time we were heading back to the house. The summer air was heavy with humidity and the fireflies and crickets rejoiced in the dew already forming on the grass. My dad stopped us for a moment, so we stood and held our breath inside our chests as if our ears could listen better if we didn't breathe. A moaning sob crawled from the woods and resonated in our eardrums, making the hair stand up on all of our necks. Dad brought his bony finger up to his pursed lips and waited until another cry had manifested itself in our fraying nerves. It didn't waste time. The crickets silenced themselves momentarily every time the cry was released, and I felt the tears welling up underneath my eyes from the mere sound of it. I tugged on my mom's sundress softly and looked up to her glassy eyes. They didn't look down at me, though. They were fixed on my dad, whose eyes were fixed on the ambient cry that surrounded us. Before I knew it, dad was gone. I recognized his footfalls on the forested ground as branches cracked and leaves crumbled under his weight. I was jarred from my place when mom pulled my shoulder in towards her side, and I buried my face in the ruffles of her dress. I was younger, then; stupid, even. I didn't know that hiding my face didn't make me invisible, no matter how hard I willed it. Mom shuffled her feet into their places. I watched down at them as her toes gripped the end of her dusty sandals. I did the same, but it didn't matter.
My dad shouted out and the tears that I had been holding back exploded from my eyelids. Mom jolted me to the ground and shot me a look that I was very familiar with. I stayed low and still just like it said. She ran off like lightning and I sat there hugging the bag of bread and vegetables. I wondered for a split second if she'd yell at me for crushing the bread, but the thought vanished when mom's voice called out with unintelligible words. Her yell cracked and dad's roar boomed, making a thunderstorm of anger and fear that echoed off the trees like gunshots.
My eyes shot back and forth, glancing between two decisions until I panicked and chose one of them. I jumped up from the ground and dropped the groceries. I bolted towards the ruckus only to find that it was already over. My dad hovered over two men and a woman. They weren't moving anymore, and the smell of copper sank under the humid air like oil and water. His muscled arm wrapped around his gut as the blood dripped into a puddle in the dirt. He groaned in frustration and slumped to the ground. It was all a trick. Mom panted in shaky breaths as she explained the plot in small words. The woman cried to get attention, so that when someone came to help, the two men would jump out and attack the good Samaritan. My mind couldn't comprehend why anyone would do such an evil thing, so I blocked it from my mind and sobbed out an apology in pieces. It was dark then, but I could still see the light reflect dimly off of her teeth as she smiled at me. Limping over and bending down, she hugged me tightly and expressed her thankfulness for my safety, even though I had disobeyed her.
They wouldn't understand, though, would they? I don't have time to just tell them my life story. Who would want to hear that anyways? What if that old woman was in on it? What if she wasn't in danger at all? Dad always told me to dismiss all my 'what-ifs', saying that if something was going to happen, it just would. He's not here to tell me that anymore, but what if he was? I guess he was right...what-ifs really don't matter.
I killed someone just like dad did. I wonder if he felt the same way as I do now. I didn't want to kill anyone. Who was I even protecting? Myself? They weren't after me, they were after that old woman, and I just killed one of them. I was excited when I got that new bow the other day, but I didn't realize that I wasn't excited to use it. I let go and the arrow I shot went right through his throat...he fell to the ground with a gurgle that blocked his breath. You know what bothered me the most, though? My group. They congratulated me as if I had done something good. I choked out a tasteless joke to mask my disgust, but it left an acidic taste in the back of my mouth. Brad smeared the blood from the man's throat and painted lines on my face like a tribal mark. What kind of people are these? How on earth did they grow up to act this way? Maybe they aren't so different than the mercenaries and thugs I hear about. If this is what being a hero means, then I want to be the opposite.
I killed someone today.
I can't remember exactly how it all happened, all I can think about is how frighteningly simple of an action it was. All I had to do was let go. There were a few tall men that were harassing an old woman when we were on our way to some other nameless shop. I wanted to mind my own business, but the rest of the group charged them without a second thought. I don't blame them, really, I don't. Everyone wants to be a hero...everyone but me.
Shortly before my mom went away, all of us went on a grocery trip to the market. The trip itself wasn't anything special, but what happened on the way back was. It was nearly dark by the time we were heading back to the house. The summer air was heavy with humidity and the fireflies and crickets rejoiced in the dew already forming on the grass. My dad stopped us for a moment, so we stood and held our breath inside our chests as if our ears could listen better if we didn't breathe. A moaning sob crawled from the woods and resonated in our eardrums, making the hair stand up on all of our necks. Dad brought his bony finger up to his pursed lips and waited until another cry had manifested itself in our fraying nerves. It didn't waste time. The crickets silenced themselves momentarily every time the cry was released, and I felt the tears welling up underneath my eyes from the mere sound of it. I tugged on my mom's sundress softly and looked up to her glassy eyes. They didn't look down at me, though. They were fixed on my dad, whose eyes were fixed on the ambient cry that surrounded us. Before I knew it, dad was gone. I recognized his footfalls on the forested ground as branches cracked and leaves crumbled under his weight. I was jarred from my place when mom pulled my shoulder in towards her side, and I buried my face in the ruffles of her dress. I was younger, then; stupid, even. I didn't know that hiding my face didn't make me invisible, no matter how hard I willed it. Mom shuffled her feet into their places. I watched down at them as her toes gripped the end of her dusty sandals. I did the same, but it didn't matter.
My dad shouted out and the tears that I had been holding back exploded from my eyelids. Mom jolted me to the ground and shot me a look that I was very familiar with. I stayed low and still just like it said. She ran off like lightning and I sat there hugging the bag of bread and vegetables. I wondered for a split second if she'd yell at me for crushing the bread, but the thought vanished when mom's voice called out with unintelligible words. Her yell cracked and dad's roar boomed, making a thunderstorm of anger and fear that echoed off the trees like gunshots.
My eyes shot back and forth, glancing between two decisions until I panicked and chose one of them. I jumped up from the ground and dropped the groceries. I bolted towards the ruckus only to find that it was already over. My dad hovered over two men and a woman. They weren't moving anymore, and the smell of copper sank under the humid air like oil and water. His muscled arm wrapped around his gut as the blood dripped into a puddle in the dirt. He groaned in frustration and slumped to the ground. It was all a trick. Mom panted in shaky breaths as she explained the plot in small words. The woman cried to get attention, so that when someone came to help, the two men would jump out and attack the good Samaritan. My mind couldn't comprehend why anyone would do such an evil thing, so I blocked it from my mind and sobbed out an apology in pieces. It was dark then, but I could still see the light reflect dimly off of her teeth as she smiled at me. Limping over and bending down, she hugged me tightly and expressed her thankfulness for my safety, even though I had disobeyed her.
They wouldn't understand, though, would they? I don't have time to just tell them my life story. Who would want to hear that anyways? What if that old woman was in on it? What if she wasn't in danger at all? Dad always told me to dismiss all my 'what-ifs', saying that if something was going to happen, it just would. He's not here to tell me that anymore, but what if he was? I guess he was right...what-ifs really don't matter.
I killed someone just like dad did. I wonder if he felt the same way as I do now. I didn't want to kill anyone. Who was I even protecting? Myself? They weren't after me, they were after that old woman, and I just killed one of them. I was excited when I got that new bow the other day, but I didn't realize that I wasn't excited to use it. I let go and the arrow I shot went right through his throat...he fell to the ground with a gurgle that blocked his breath. You know what bothered me the most, though? My group. They congratulated me as if I had done something good. I choked out a tasteless joke to mask my disgust, but it left an acidic taste in the back of my mouth. Brad smeared the blood from the man's throat and painted lines on my face like a tribal mark. What kind of people are these? How on earth did they grow up to act this way? Maybe they aren't so different than the mercenaries and thugs I hear about. If this is what being a hero means, then I want to be the opposite.
-Bindi